


Ice and Wine

by Gileonnen



Series: Trust [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: An Immortal Fascination with Death, Clothed Sex, Death Threats as Casual Flirtation, Drifter's Indiscriminate Palate, Intimations of Apocalypse, Lotus Wine, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Sexy Sexy Gun Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: "What say you come up to the Derelict? As I recall, I owe you a meal."On a frozen night, the Drifter calls Shin up to the Derelict for drinks.





	Ice and Wine

Shin's just starting to get cozy in his sleeping bag when the call comes through. "Hey, _pal_," says Drifter right next to his ear, and Shin startles all the way awake with his gun in his hand. His Ghost blinks gently from beside his pillow. "What say you come up to the Derelict? As I recall, I owe you a meal."

Shin kicks down the sleeping bag and starts putting on his armor. Settles his cloak over his shoulders and pulls up the hood. Something in Drifter's voice has him rattled--there's an unfamiliar note of satisfaction there, a rich, generous inflection that's out of place on Drifter's lips. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Drifter was--

\--a pause. "Drifter," says Shin. His voice is sleep-rough; the edge of it is jagged. "Are you drunk."

"Might be," Drifter laughs. In the empty wreck of a room where Shin had been sleeping, he sounds enormous, endless. Intimate as a whisper against his ear. The hair stands up on the back of Shin's neck. "Ask yourself how many drinks it takes before I'm ready to try my luck against the Man with the Golden Gun."

Shin is pacing. Can't help it. He picks up a pack of ammunition, glowing faintly white in the dimness, and slots it into the cylinder of his hand cannon. "I'm--"

"'Retired,' yeah, I remember. But old habits die hard, right?" Shin can easily imagine Drifter's smile, that dark beard framing too many teeth. "Bet you're already halfway into your armor. Bet you're sliding home a clip."

The gun is cold in Shin's hand. He holsters it. "Not sure if you're asking me up for drinks or an execution," he says, half to himself.

He can almost hear how Drifter grins. Maybe licks his lips like he's ready to devour Shin whole. "How about you decide on the way."

This whole thing feels like a trap. No fucking way Drifter invites Shin up to his ship, all languid and eager--doesn't matter how many drinks he's had. There's only one thing in this dark, cold universe that Drifter cares about. Only one person he trusts.

It's been so long since Shin walked into a trap. His nerves are aching for it, humming like electrified wire.

He remembers bright eyes glittering in the firelight, avid with something unspoken. Unspeakable, maybe. _ Gotta have someone to watch your back._

He swears to himself as he tucks a knife into his boot. "Send me the transmat coordinates," he says. "I'll start making up my mind."

Drifter chuckles into the comm. "There's a beacon a little ways out from your camp. Down by the beach."

The night air is bracingly cold; frosted leaves crackle under Shin's boots. There's barely enough moonlight to see by. "Thought the Fallen had a nest out there," he says, toggling between spectra: infrared, ultraviolet, visible light again.

A huff of amusement. "Just motes in the bank, pal. Went three rounds out there--took out a few heavy shanks, a couple of captains lookin' to make their names. You should've heard the way they _crunched_ when they went down. Like cracking a crab open. Wonder what they'd taste like, under all that armor and bone. Wonder if they'd be sweet."

The sound he makes is obscene. Shin can't stop imagining what his mouth looks like, lips pursed to suck, tip of his tongue flicking out for a taste. It makes his gut twist.

"What's your loadout right now?" Drifter asks, same intonation as _What are you wearing_. "I hear you're the kind of guy who likes to get all personal. Shotgun's too messy. Hand cannon, I bet. You'd want to do it clean."

_And what the fuck do you know about what I want,_ Shin thinks, but the hand cannon at his side says Drifter's got him dead to rights.

He almost turns around. For a moment, he stands still at the crest of a rubble-covered slope, looking down at the wreckage of rusted street signs and overgrown hunks of concrete. If he's going to go, he needs to know why he's going. It needs to be clear-eyed. Shin can lie to the whole world, every creature the Light or Dark has touched, but if he starts lying to himself he'll be lost.

He'd thrilled at that rough voice beside his ear. The way the skin at his neck prickled, anticipating a touch that never came. Even now, he isn't sure what he's craving--whether he wants a fight or something filthier--but his nerves are strung tight with the wanting.

He can't stop thinking about Drifter's mouth, though, which just about answers that question.

After what feels like an eternity, he leaps down from the ledge. Catches himself on air just a hand's breadth from the ground, then ghosts through the last streets of the ruined town until he reaches the water.

Waves lap against shards of thin ice, pushing them up into a glittering ring around the shore. Ahead, he sees a crashed ship inert at the water's edge, like some deep-sea behemoth washed up after a storm. Its hull is pocked with bullet holes and flecked with shining ether. No bloodstains. Not that there would be.

The beacon is waiting for him in the husk of a building--just a few support beams and boarded-up windows left, a few high rusted girders straining toward the stars. Shin tips his head back, until the hood slides back from his hair, and scans the sky. His eyes fix on a steady point of light.

A ship in low orbit, towing behind a little frozen world.

Drifter's voice echoes over the comms, rough and strange against the eerie quiet of the battlefield. "You still with me, pal? You've been awful quiet. Don't tell me you're leavin' old Drifter out in the cold."

"I'm here," answers Shin. "Just found your beacon. Ready for transmat."

"Took you long enough," Drifter grouses. "Transmat firing."

The world stretches, bends in an endless white parabola--Shin can almost _feel_ himself pulled into a scattering of atoms--and then he's standing on a catwalk in some kind of cargo bay. He sucks in a deep breath and feels the cold burn down to his lungs.

Drifter is waiting for him, leaning on the rail of a metal platform that overlooks the room. His face shines--drink or cold; Shin couldn't say. His eyes are bright with something else entirely. "Welcome," he says, "to the Derelict."

The Derelict is cold, cavernous, crusted with stalactites of ice. The open bay doors overlook Earth's long horizon. Shin can just make out the thin film of atmosphere shining where the sunset creeps across the Atlantic; it makes his eyes ache. He exhales, his breath a cloud of frozen vapor, and turns away.

"Cozy," Shin remarks. "See why you came sniffing around my place."

"This is where the magic happens," says Drifter. He spreads his arms wide to take in the whole of his ragged little palace of knives: the empty catwalks, the icicles dripping from the machinery, the snakelike growths in the shadows. "Gambit Ground Zero. Sure, she ain't the coziest ship, but she'll get you there sooner or later."

Shin snorts and jumps the guardrail to join Drifter on his platform. This close, warmth radiates from Drifter's body, leaching out into the cold air. He's a little shorter than Shin, heavy-boned under the layers of robes and the furred Fallen pauldrons. Built like a brawler, and a part of Shin wants to know how dirty he'd fight. "Going somewhere in particular?"

"Same place we're all going," Drifter answers. "Sooner or later. Like it or not."

If they'd been anyone else--anything else--Shin would know what that meant. There had been a time when the answer came easily. But with the Light in his marrow, behind his eyes and in his veins, he's learned to dread darker ends than mortality. "You get off on being cryptic?" he asks.

"Nah, I'm just messin' with you," Drifter says, laughing. The laugh doesn't quite reach his eyes. He pushes back from the railing and beckons Shin to follow, and like a fool, he does.

As they duck into a narrow passageway, Drifter turns back to Shin. "Hey, you made up your mind yet?" he asks. As though it's a casual question--_Did you come here to kill me, or what?_

Behind him, bulkheads and ventilation shafts lead into a long darkness. This time, when Drifter spreads his arms, Shin sees all the guns he's not carrying. No holsters clipped to his waist, no grenade launcher slung across his back. Some folks say that Drifter made a gun to kill Shin Malphur, forged in blood and shadow, but Shin doesn't see it on him.

Not that it means anything, that he doesn't see it.

He steps past Drifter and into the hall. "What are we drinking?"

"Lotus wine," says Drifter, and his voice is warm and languid again. He puts a hand on Shin's shoulder as though to guide him, but there's only one path forward: into a frozen cavern lined with strange flora, with a shipping crate half-buried in ice at the back. A golden light spills out of the mouth of it; Shin glimpses crates of ammunition, canned meats, bookshelves far at the back. A few lamps in one corner, shaded in red glass and pierced copper.

It's the only place in this whole ship that's felt like someone lives here. Maybe it's the only part of the ship where Drifter lets himself live.

As they step into the close warmth of the crate, Drifter picks up a clay jug from a workbench strewn with half-assembled guns. He takes a swig, sighs, then sinks down on the worn camp bed. "Ah," he says appreciatively. "Just like grandma used to make."

"Didn't know you could remember your grandma."

"As many fathers as you've had, you oughta know kin ain't just about blood." Another long swallow that leaves Drifter's lips shining. "Maybe someday I'll tell you about her. Good for you to be carrying around someone else's stories for a change."

Drifter offers the jug, and Shin takes it. The liquid inside is pale and cloudy; it smells cloying, heady, sweet. When he raises it to his lips, the alcohol burns low and warm in his mouth. He tastes fermented rice, honey, something like and not like any flower on Earth.

He looks outside of the crate, past the soft edge of the warm orange lamplight, to the strange buds waving gently without a breeze.

Better not to ask. He tilts the jug back and drinks deep.

"Why'd you ask me up here, Drifter?" he asks, leaning back until the edge of the workbench digs into his thighs. They're close enough that their boots almost touch, Drifter's legs splayed wide and Shin's crossed at the ankle between them. "Just wanted to tell stories about your grandma and get someone else's opinion on your hooch?"

Drifter rolls his eyes. "Why's everything gotta have a reason with you? Maybe I called you up to shoot me. Hell, maybe I just _felt_ like it. Figured you'd be better company than a couple thousand Taken." He swipes the jug; his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows in long, greedy gulps. Like he's trying to get the drinking over with--like he can't pump liquor into his body fast enough to keep his mind quiet.

Like he's nerving himself up to do something he'll regret.

Shin's pulse echoes in his ears. He reaches out for the jug, letting his gloved hand rest over Drifter's. A cold spike of yearning sings down his spine.

Drifter's eyes are so stupidly blue.

"You sure you don't have a reason?" Shin asks. "'Cause I was hoping you'd called me up here to fuck."

He sets the jug down, and Drifter lets him. Lights his palm along Drifter's jaw, thumb tracing the smooth curve of his lower lip, and Drifter lets him. His breath gusts hot over the back of Shin's hand; Shin can feel it through the thin fabric of his gloves. Drifter never drops his gaze. He watches Shin like they're playing mahjong, like he's deciding what to discard and what to claim.

When Shin leans in to kiss him, Drifter meets him halfway, his teeth sharp and his tongue wine-sweet. He bites to draw blood, and Shin gasps and opens up for him; he licks into Shin's mouth as though he means to hollow him out. For a moment that spools out beyond reckoning, there's only the harsh stutter of their breath and the taste of Drifter's lips, the filthy wet sound of the kiss as they see how deep they can take it.

When Drifter draws back, Shin grazes his knuckles from temple to cheekbone. "The wine's all right," Shin says, still so close that he can feel Drifter's laugh against his cheek.

Drifter undoes the catches on Shin's cloak and lets it fall, slithering down his shoulders to pool on the floor. "It'll get you there, sooner or later."

This time, when they kiss, Shin bears Drifter down to the narrow bed. It groans and bows beneath their weight, but right then Shin doesn't think he could stop even if the frame collapsed--Drifter's hand is fisted in his hair, twisting just the right side of painful, and Shin's teeth are mapping every raw nerve in Drifter's neck. Every bite wrings some new, animal sound from deep in Drifter's chest, makes him rock up harder into the pressure of Shin's hips; the curve of his cock lines up against Shin's, long and hard and perfect.

He can't remember which of them got a hand down the other's pants first. All he knows is that when Drifter's palm closes over him, Shin can feel every seam of his gloves, and that's almost enough to finish him. "Hold up," Shin says. He pushes himself up to one elbow, easing back to straddle one of Drifter's thighs. His thumb sweeps slow, slick circles over the head of Drifter's cock. "I want to get my mouth on you."

"You make yourself right at home." Drifter works his fly open and pulls himself out, heavy and dark and glazed at the tip with precome. The sight makes Shin's mouth water. It's been a long time since he sucked someone off, but it comes back to him as he slides down to kiss the line of Drifter's loin--the musky smell caught in the dense hair from cock to navel. The soft heaviness of Drifter's balls, resting obscenely on Shin's gloved fingertips. The pleasure of a long lick from root to crown, lips closing over the tip and sliding slowly down. The way his throat burns, resists, then relaxes as he lets himself be filled.

Drifter's fingertips brush Shin's brow as his mouth goes slack. There's a searching look in his eyes, like he's trying to place Shin's face--where he's seen that hairline, those brows, those eyes. Those cheeks hollowed and hungry.

Maybe he has, in another life. Shin's been more people than he can remember, but not everyone forgets.

Then Shin swallows him to the root again, again and again until Drifter groans and closes his eyes.

He hooks his fingers in Drifter's pants, working them down around his hips. "Want to eat you out," he says, and his voice is _fucked._ He sways up to kiss Drifter's lips, and Drifter drinks him down until Shin is dizzy with need. Every bite sends a pulse of pure sensation down his aching nerves; every lick makes him moan, ragged and shameless.

"Let me--" Drifter starts, but Shin drags his teeth over Drifter's lower lip "--let me get my boots off, shit, give me two seconds--"

Shin lets him drag his boots off and work his pants free. The skin beneath is paler than the Drifter's face, rough with dark hair that Shin can't wait to get his hands on. He skins off his gloves and drops them to the floor with his cloak.

His bare palms smooth down Drifter's thighs. There's strength there, coiled in those taut muscles; there's strength in the smooth flex of knees and hips. He eases Drifter's thighs back, up toward his shoulders, and Drifter reaches up to catch himself behind the knees.

For a moment, in this little coffin of light amid the great dark abyss, Shin thinks he understands what Drifter meant when he called him to the Derelict. This is a kind of trust that they don't talk about, because naming it could shatter it--the act of laying yourself bare for someone else, exposing yourself to all their weapons and machinations, and believing that they won't do you ill.

He leans down to kiss the insides of Drifter's thighs, lavishing them with his tongue, sucking deep red marks into that pale flesh. Shin circles Drifter's hole with a fingertip, feeling the muscle tense and relax. "Come on," Drifter says. His voice is tight, straining. "Come on--"

"I'm enjoying myself," Shin says against his skin.

Drifter turns his face into his shoulder to smother a hiss. "You're gonna be enjoying yourself a _whole lot less_ if you don't start eating my ass."

For once in his life, Shin takes pity. He bends down, burying his mouth between Drifter's legs, and kisses him hard and deep and dirty.

When Shin finally gets his tongue inside, Drifter lets out a sound like he's been shot, a deep inhalation that could be pain as easily as pleasure. Shin licks into him and Drifter arches against his mouth, driving himself onto Shin's tongue until Shin can't help groaning with want. He fists one hand around his own cock, one around Drifter's, and jerks them out of time with the brutal pace of Drifter's hips.

Drifter comes across his hand, swearing and shuddering, then drags Shin up to kiss him while his cock is still pulsing in his hand. It's the most vulgar kiss Shin's ever had, his clothes still on and Drifter's taste still on his tongue. It's enough to send him reeling over the edge.

It's perfect.

There isn't room on Drifter's camp bed for two, but that just means Shin has to sprawl over Drifter's chest and drag the Omolon-brand sleeping bag over them both.

"Hey," Drifter says. "Don't you have some kinda ruin to get back to." There's no bite in it, though, and he shifts around until Shin's weight settles a little better against him.

"I like this ruin just fine," Shin answers. "And besides--you still owe me a meal."


End file.
